


The World of the One Percent

by leviathanchronicles



Category: Original Work
Genre: CATCH ME CRYING, Gen, Gift Fic, Nonbinary Character, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Underage Drinking, very mild though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 04:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leviathanchronicles/pseuds/leviathanchronicles
Summary: His presence is required at galas and fundraisers every other week, and what is the point of attending functions if one doesn’t also have a date to show how well-loved they are? So he invites her along, and they attend in matching Louboutin shoes, sipping champagne from fluted wine glasses, him whispering family secrets about their exquisitely dressed company into her ear.





	The World of the One Percent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onlyeli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyeli/gifts).



> Some sweet backstory: way back in 2015, eli and i made these original characters. they had nothing to do with each other, they didn't even LIKE each other. sometime in the next two years, though, they became the closest of friends. not to get emo, but they've changed SO much. i can see such a great difference between alice of 2015 and alice of today, and it's been so wonderful to see how she's developed. she's probably my favorite original character of someone else's creation, and i can't wait until alice dubois is the main character of some movie or novel. i love her, and i hope i did her justice.
> 
> alright there's the emo bs here's the obligatory stuff: connor is mine and alice belongs to onlyeli! if you want to hear about either of them, trust me, just ask, we'll probably cry. and with that said i don't have much to actually...say about this fic but i love them!!!

She is always his date to family functions. Of course she is; he wouldn’t be able to laugh at pompous family members with anyone else. He probably wouldn’t be able to laugh in general without her by his side, gently (and not so gently) teasing him about his pretentious thoughts and expensive tastes until he’s forced to concede. Before, it was a matter of pride, his inability to laugh at himself; now, his pride is punctuated with the desire to roll his eyes at himself.

That doesn’t change the fact that his presence is required at galas and fundraisers every other week, and what is the point of attending functions if one doesn’t also have a date to show how well-loved they are? So he invites her along, and they attend in matching Louboutin shoes, sipping champagne from fluted wine glasses, him whispering family secrets about their exquisitely dressed company into her ear. The unspoken rule that he must bring a date is acknowledged, but unimportant; he would drag her along regardless.

One of those lovely women on the outskirts of the room, some second cousin or something like that, glides over, her jewelry glistening as bright as the chandelier hanging above them. Whoever she is, Connor’s well aware that she’d had an affair with her assistant. That isn’t too exciting, as far as his family goes -- when you’re rich, you want what is forbidden, just to prove that you can have it. No, it’s not much, but it’s entertainment; he fills Alice in with a quick whisper, and then the conversation begins.

The second cousin (or maybe third?) tilts her head and comments on how lovely it is that he brings the same girl to every event; a strong relationship is a wonderful thing to have, and so rare at their young age. Alice hides a sly smile behind her wine glass, which she drinks from confidently and freely; no one will comment on the drinking of two teenagers dressed to the nines.

The woman then gestures to the floor and asks when the two will dance -- “You know, Connor, it isn’t polite to leave a lady on the sidelines.” This time, Alice doesn’t hide the grin that breaks apart her face, and Connor shoots her a dirty look. The unidentified family member smiles at the two, apparently enamoured by their mild spat, and leaves them with a wistful sigh.

Before Connor can comment on her apparent obsession with healthy relationships, Alice leans into his shoulder, fluttering her eyelashes up at him. When she speaks, it is an exaggerated version of his cousin’s voice, so breathy as to almost sound painful. “Connor, it isn’t polite to leave a lady on the sidelines.”

He rolls his eyes and delicately sets his wine glass on the table, offering his other hand to her. She glances at his hand and back at him before smiling again, this time more genuinely as she takes his hand.

“Are you sure you can keep up, Con?”

He leads her to the floor, shooting a dirty look at a twirling couple that steps into their way. He’s awfully used to the world revolving around him. “I took ballroom dance when I was younger, Alice.” He pauses, then spits out her last name as an afterthought. “Dubois. I could hardly be a Brannigan if I couldn’t go to galas like this and not make a fool of myself.”

She rolls her eyes, a reflection of his snark. Their intertwined hands are raised, and she lays her free hand on his upper arm. “How long ago was that?”

“When I was eight, I believe.”

The mischievous glint in her eyes makes it obvious that she’d planned for that kind of answer. “So, last week, then?” Before he can protest, she’s dragging him onto the floor and spinning the two of them, and he has to concentrate on that.

He really isn’t terrible; after all, he’d gone to etiquette classes all throughout his childhood. His technique is more than passable, and he only needs a few moments to tap into muscle memory. Technique is as far as it goes for him, though; she’s the one who brings passion into the art. The two are twirling in a room filled with Connor’s equally pretentious family members, but she moves as though she is on stage, shining and smiling and having the time of her life.

By the end of their dance, Connor is out of breath and muttering to himself about how it’s just meant to be ballroom dance, thank you. The two sit beside each other and new wine glasses, their first ones long forgotten. He’s about to make a more directed complaint, but when he turns to her, she is practically glowing, her hand draped over her chest as she watches those still dancing. His bitterness fades, and he returns his attention to his drink. It's hard to get annoyed with someone who is just indulging in their passions.

When the moment has passed, he checks the time then tilts his phone towards her. She needs no further commentary; the two stand up simultaneously and make their way to the door. He has finished his obligatory appearance, and she doesn’t feel like going from a bright, crowded event to an empty house. Their trip back is accompanied with snide comments and crude impersonations, all the things they’d had to keep relatively quiet while in attendance. By the time they make it to her house, they’re at the point where they’re just laughing at each other, or perhaps at nothing at all.

He turns on as many lights as he can think of, even the ones in rooms that they’re unlikely to use, and she pours drinks. They have it to a science, meeting in her room within a few minutes. He’s already settled at her vanity, shuffling through the makeup lining the counter, and she sets his drink down before pulling another chair up beside him.

“When is our next exciting adventure into the world of the one percent?” Her tone is so genuine that anyone who didn’t know her wouldn’t realize she comes from money herself, but Connor doesn’t even bother commenting on this.

“I’ll forward my aunt’s contact information to you. She’ll happily give you the schedule for, oh, the next five years.” Tone betrays annoyance with the events he is always forced to attend, but he is quickly distracted by a bottle of moisturizer. She doesn’t ask permission before turning his chair to face him, curling her legs underneath her and gesturing for him to face her. He does, and she clicks her tongue while looking for the foundation she needs.

“Connor, I’m touched that you plan to keep inviting me for that long.” It’s a joke, but she means it, and the soft way she stares at him makes that obvious. She begins to blend out foundation, glad that she managed to pick up the one that actually matches him -- he tends to leave his stuff here a lot, making nights like this that much easier.

He scrunches up his face just to make her job more difficult, relaxing only when she huffs and pulls her sponge back. When he tries to speak, she swipes the sponge across his mouth, and he snorts. “The invitation is officially revoked. We had a good run, Miss Dubois.”

“It’s mademoiselle, Con, we’ve covered this.” She finds the concealer much more quickly, tilting his head down and getting to work. Connor mutters the correction under his breath, no doubt believing it ridiculous and she briefly considers stabbing him with the concealer wand. Instead, she just goes back to blending. “You have to invite me. Your family would miss me if I wasn’t there providing my stunningly good looks and my awe-inspiring personality.”

He doesn’t even bother with pretenses, letting her turn his head to the side and begin contouring. “Wouldn’t we all?”

She smiles, turning his head to the other side and finishing the job. The comment needs no response, and the two sit in comfortable silence, the only sound the shuffling of makeup bottles and occasional instructions. Alice is good at makeup, having done Connor’s almost as often as she does her own, and she finishes with a dusting of highlight. A moment’s consideration, and she goes in with another layer; he isn’t one for subtle looks, and his cheekbones might as well match the bright eyeshadow she’s given him.

He’s turning to the mirror before she’s even said she’s finished, well adapted to their routine. A few seconds later, and he’s almost tearing up, staring at his own reflection. She’d make a joke about how modest he is if she didn’t know how important these moments are to him. It’s a simple enough relationship: she doesn’t comment when he makes her bring his ridiculously expensive makeup to the register only to remove it before going home, and he doesn’t comment on the fact that her home is never going to be host to anyone other than herself and the teens that come to her parties.

She leans her head on his shoulder, squinting at his reflection. There’s a smear of mascara beneath his right eye, and he notices it at the same time that she does, doing his best to wipe it away without ruining the rest of the look. “One of these days, you’ll have to teach me how to do eyeliner like this.”

She muffles a laugh at the way the mascara just ends up staining his skin, but she doesn’t comment on the mess. “I can’t do that. You won’t have a reason to keep me around.”

“I’ll make a reason up, then.”

And they’re silent again, their breathing slowly becoming steadier until they doze off, slightly tipsy and aware that they’ll wake up the next day with gummy makeup and headaches. Somehow, they don't really mind.


End file.
